The Long Answer
by BookishGal
Summary: Clarice Starling has an opportunity for a future with Hannibal Lecter - if she's willing to take it. Diverges from movie canon near the end of "Hannibal." Rated M for some language and sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** The story follows movie canon up to the kitchen scene in _Hannibal_ and diverges from that point forward. If you like the story, please thank Green Jewels for convincing me to post it. If you dislike the story, feel free to castigate me in a review.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine but the use of these particular words in this particular order. Everything else goes home to its proper copyright owner at last call.

* * *

><p>"Tell me, Clarice, would you ever say to me, 'Stop. If you loved me, you'd stop'?"<p>

In contrast to the violence of his hands on her skin just moments before, his voice was gentle. From another man, she might have called it … affectionate. It seemed a ludicrous thought, that Hannibal Lecter might show affection to anyone. A ruse to lure her in, then, to trap her with his words and force her into revealing … revealing what?

Hadn't his choice of words been their own revelation? Did she expect him to speak any more plainly?

_People will say we're in love._

Hadn't he carried her away from danger? Didn't his careful, neat handiwork burn against her flesh as new blood welled from her wound? Hadn't he showered her with gifts – the shoes, the dress, her enemy trussed like a turkey and served on a platter? Clarice repressed a shudder, suddenly glad she couldn't see past his shoulder to the other side of the kitchen where what remained of Paul Krendler sat motionless.

And now, after her ridiculously ineffectual assault on his person, hadn't he shown restraint? For a man as subtle as Dr. Lecter, such words and actions had been as blatant as a billboard in Times Square.

He was waiting for her to speak. His eyes studied her own, and she wondered what he saw there.

"As a gentleman, I would prefer not to press a lady for her answer, Clarice, but time is rather short."

Was it? Yes, that was her doing; her phone call had made certain of it. Did he think she was stalling him? What else could he think? Her head was laden with heavy thoughts, and the morphine fog descending now that her adrenaline rush had faded made it impossible to follow any thought to its conclusion. She could hardly do the question justice in this state.

Her voice, when she found it, was steadier than she'd expected.

"The short answer is no, Doctor."

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze never wavering from her face.

"Such a response bespeaks the existence of a long answer, Clarice. Must I ask you again?"

Was it his prolonged nearness or the strain of fighting the morphine that sent a tremor through her? The metal door was cool against her naked back; surely it might have provoked a shiver. But Clarice's mind was clear on this point, at least: It was the heat of the man in front of her that sent her nerve endings into a frenzied dance. She strove to imitate his even tone, knowing as she did that his keen attention could hardly fail to note the hitch in her breath.

"If I start the long answer now, Doctor, we'll be finishing it from either side of Plexiglas."

"Isn't that your fondest desire, Special Agent Starling? To see me incarcerated for my crimes?"

His answer had been swift, swifter than she'd expected, and she cursed the instinctive shake of her head even as she aborted the motion.

"Was that a 'no,' Clarice?" He leaned toward her, his body at a polite distance but for his lips nearly grazing her ear. "What's going on in that fascinating mind of yours, hmm?"

"Another time, Doctor." She was drowning in his scent. He was close enough now that she might tilt her head forward a little and lick the skin of his neck just under his ear, her mental voice supplied, and her body helpfully arched forward the merest fraction of an inch before the tug of her hair in the refrigerator door reminded her that the circumstances were far from ideal.

His exhalation against her ear made it clear that he had noticed her lapse in judgment.

"Is that an invitation, Clarice? Have I your permission to arrange another evening for us?"

"Another dinner party, Doctor?" She hoped he could hear the scorn in her voice. "I'd prefer one with fewer guests." Honesty compelled her to add, more quietly, "and no gate-crashers."

"Mmm. An intimate evening for two? You surprise me, Clarice. But how could I fail to deliver when my lady's wishes have been expressed so clearly?"

She should protest the appellation, certainly, was opening her mouth to do just that when a soft rustle of fabric reached her ears.

"Doctor?"

The slight sting at her elbow and the cooling rush flowing through her arm gave her the answer she sought.

"My apologies, Clarice, but you'll fare better with your Eff Bee Eye colleagues if you can claim no knowledge of the evening's events. It rankles, I know. You might take me to task for it later, should you remember this conversation at all."

She blinked at him as he drew back, but her eyes refused to focus on his face. She frowned. Her hand lifted of its own accord, fingers landing lightly against his cheek. Her thumb traced a slash of pink; his lips, she realized, as they moved under her touch.

"No candlestick, Clarice? No butter knife? My my, this evening has been momentous indeed."

Something in his voice niggled at her brain. He was using that soft, teasing tone again, the one that invited her, and only her, into … into what? His confidence? She felt the sudden urge to share something meaningful with him before her eyes drifted closed.

"Thank you … for the shoes, Doctor. They're lovely."

She sagged against his chest as he pried her hair out of the door, his heartbeat a pleasant, steady thumping beneath her ear.

"No lovelier than the feet they grace, Clarice."

She was moving now, her head dizzy with the shift, and warm bands beneath her back and knees convinced her that he had swung her into his arms. Her thoughts floated with her body.

… _if you loved me … _

The faint whisper against her brow might have been a kiss – or it might have been her own imagination carrying her off on a morphine tide.


	2. Chapter 2

When she woke for the first time, it was to scratchy sheets and the quiet noises that permeate any hospital room: the murmur of conversations and muted footsteps in the hall, the rattle of equipment rolling past, the varied clicks and beeps as machines beside the bed carried out their duties.

Opening her eyes merely confirmed what she already knew. She lay alone on a narrow bed in a dimly lit hospital room, her head and chest slightly elevated, one finger trapped in a plastic embrace with a cord trailing to something alongside the bed. The glowing numbers were unreadable, their blurriness only adding to the pounding in her head, and she turned away.

The door stood open, spilling a bit of light from the hall. A shadow moved past. Some small effort brought it almost into focus on the next pass: a state trooper, by the uniform. No, two; the pant leg of another was visible beyond the door frame. It was the second who spoke first.

"Quit your pacing, wouldja?"

Clarice cheered silently; the clacking of boot heels as the officer paced _was_ rather irritating.

"You ain't bothered by this shit babysitting job? If that psycho comes back to finish her off, you think we're gonna be able to do fuck-all about it? You wanna end up with your brains hanging out?"

"Keep your voice down, idiot. You didn't even see the guy's brains anyway."

"Yeah, neither did you, but I bet you ain't eager to hand the cannibal a knife and offer him your head, either."

She drifted back to sleep, contented by a single thought: Hannibal Lecter was not in custody. He had escaped again.

* * *

><p>The next time Clarice woke, her vision was clear, her headache had gone, and Clint Pearsall stood at her bedside.<p>

"Starling, good, you're awake." After a glance at her face, his eyes skimmed over the sheet outlining her form.

It was hardly lascivious, but the thin hospital gown and sheet left her feeling more exposed than she had in Lecter's idea of appropriate dinner dress. She splayed her fingers out flat on the bed, resisting the urge to clutch the sheets to her and demand her clothing. It wouldn't be here with her in any case; it was probably already lying in evidence bags at Quantico. Who would be heading up the team this time? Not her, clearly. Not after this.

"You good, Starling? Not too, uh, tired?" Pearsall shifted his weight and studied the medical paraphernalia stationed around the room. It struck her that he, too, was uncomfortable in this situation; perhaps his discomfort could be used to her advantage. Better to press the attack now than end up playing defense in the days and weeks to come.

"Fine, sir. You have Lecter in custody? Is he talking?"

Pearsall stepped back and coughed.

"Uh, no, no, we don't have Lecter. But don't panic, Starling. We've got guards on your door –"

"What do you mean you don't have Lecter? I may not remember much of that night, but I sure as hell remember dialing 911. You mean to tell me that we were less than 10 minutes from grabbing him and we still couldn't manage it?" She struggled to sit up properly, hissing as the forgotten pain in her shoulder made itself known when her muscles pulled at the incision. "Jesus, you think guards on a door will make a difference? Apparently he can waltz in and out of anyplace whenever he damn well pleases."

She could hear the doctor's voice in her head, warning her not to overplay her hand. Too much aggression would be just as damaging as not enough.

"Sorry. Sorry, I'm a little…." She waggled her right hand, the plastic meter clipped to her index finger a dragging weight.

Pearsall cleared his throat and raised a hand in reply.

"Understandable, Starling. You've had a rough few days. But I still need to know what happened in there. The sooner the better. He has a twelve-hour head start on us now."

"I'd be surprised if he wasn't out of the country by now, sir."

Pearsall pulled a chair alongside the bed and dropped into it.

"Walk me through it anyway, Starling."

Short sentences. No details. Keeping things simple would avoid all sorts of awkward questions, she hoped.

"I woke in a bedroom on the second floor, wearing a black dress and shoes that weren't mine – I assume those are in evidence?" At his nod, she continued. "I was disoriented. The phone on the landing had been disconnected. I managed to twist the wires and call out. The dispatcher said ten minutes. I heard voices downstairs; I couldn't make them out. I found Dr. Lecter and Mr. Krendler in the dining room."

"Paul was alive at that point?"

"Yes. He seemed drugged, though the drugs in my own system might have skewed my impression."

Pearsall nodded again. "Toxicology will tell us for sure. Go on."

"That's it, sir. I'm not sure of anything after that." She had expected the lie to burn in her throat; instead, she had to fight to suppress a smirk. _Would they have you back, do you think? The FBI? Those people you despise almost as much as they despise you?_

She silently warned herself to pay attention. It wouldn't do to have Pearsall questioning her sincerity or her sanity, cannibal in her head or no.

"There's gotta be something, Starling. Christ, if the techs have it right, he split open Paul's skull and cooked his brain right there at the table."

To react or not to react? He was watching her closely; it was too late to pretend surprise. She settled for quiet blankness, eventually rasping out, "Could you pour me some water, please?"

He did so with quick efficiency, standing and reaching for the pitcher on the rolling table at the foot of the bed. Flipping the cup over, he filled it halfway and handed it to her.

"You remembered something just now."

Clarice took a careful sip of the water, then a second, before answering.

"Mr. Krendler, he … I think he…." She didn't have to fake the disgust twisting her face. "He was eating a piece of his brain."

The shock on Pearsall's face was delicious. Clarice watched him over the rim of the cup as she took a third sip. She held her peace while he collected himself. No need to offer any more answers than he asked for.

Pearsall sat back down rather abruptly. "Lecter was feeding him his own brain?" His revulsion was plain.

"It was just a flash, sir." Clarice stifled a shrug, judging it too casual a response to show her superior. _Your superior, Clarice? Truly? We shall have to work to eliminate such misguided thought patterns._

Her eye twitched. "I couldn't say what was really going on. My memories are less than coherent."

Pearsall pursed his lips, but he didn't press. He leaned back slightly, raising his left ankle to his right knee, and Clarice waited for the change of subject that was sure to follow.

"Why do you think he targeted Paul? Why set up shop at his summer house?"

The question had to come up sometime. Clarice paused to give the appearance of thought.

"Any answer I could give would only be conjecture, sir."

"You've studied the way Lecter thinks, Starling. You're entitled to some conjecture."

"I suppose he felt it was fitting, given Mr. Krendler's involvement with Mason Verger."

A blatant lie, though revenge was a motive the FBI might understand. A safer one, too, from where Clarice was sitting. _What if I did it for you? … What if I made them scream apologies?_

"Involvement that has yet to be proven, Starling. Paul Krendler was with Justice for a lotta years. You really think he'd throw it away to get in bed with Mason Verger?"

"I think Paul Krendler cared more about money than justice, sir." Could he hear the derision in her tone? Best hope not. Damage control, Clarice. "But he didn't deserve what happened to him. He should have gotten his day in court."

That was true, wasn't it? Could she simultaneously believe the doctor deserved deliverance from Mason Verger's torture scenario but Paul Krendler did not merit rescue from the doctor's own plans? Wasn't that a betrayal of her principles?

The doctor's voice floated up from her memory. _The brain itself feels no pain, if that concerns you._ Had he chosen his method for that very reason? Did he think that by so doing he could avoid giving offense or engaging her sympathies? Paul Krendler was no lamb, and he hadn't gone to his death screaming. If the doctor were here, now, would she have the courage to ask him?

"Starling?"

Clarice's head jerked at the sound of her name.

"Sir?"

"I asked if Lecter let slip anything about his immediate plans." He straightened his pant cuff with unnecessary attention, avoiding her eyes. "You sure you're feeling all right?"

There was an out there, if she cared to take it. But appearing too eager would be suspicious.

"I can't think of anything, no. He has an enormous ego, of course, but he's not the sort to lay out his plan to his victims so the good guys have time to catch him." Well. That was a bit on the nose, wasn't it? Time to move on quickly. "And there is the problem of my being unconscious for a large chunk of the evening, sir. I wasn't hearing anything then."

"No, of course not, of course not, Starling. Er, you should know, we – he – that is…." Pearsall stood up as though the chair were spring-loaded and returned it to its place by the wall. With his back to her, in his just-the-facts-ma'am voice, he started again. "The doctors said there wasn't evidence of anything aside from the stitches in your shoulder and the morphine in your system. That Lecter hadn't … done anything else. In case you were wondering. Because of … how you were found."

Oh, good lord. Was he suggesting… ? Yes, yes he was.

"How I was found?" Prurient interest was the default setting for both the media and her colleagues when it came to her interactions with the doctor, but there was no need to make it easy on him. "I don't follow you, sir. No one's been in to tell me anything yet."

"Ah. Well." Fiddling with the chair and the window blinds could only serve as an excuse for so long; Pearsall eventually had to turn and face her, pale as a man before the firing squad.

"The first officers on the scene found Paul's body in a wheelchair in the kitchen. You were in the dining room, in that, uh…." His hands sketched a vague form in the air. "Dress. We have people running that and the shoes down today; hopefully the salespeople remember Lecter and we can get some footage of him. The officers said you were curled on your side next to a chair; the prevailing theory is that you had been seated at the table and fell over at some point in the evening. Your hands were bound in front of you with your cuffs. Paramedics were worried about depressed respiration, so they hustled you here.

"Whatever Lecter had planned, he wasn't able to finish things before the officers got there. You were lucky, Starling. Damn lucky. And we're going to talk about breaches of protocol and the proper behavior for an agent on suspension … but not today. Get some rest."

Pearsall nodded at her and walked out before she could reply.


	3. Chapter 3

In the three months that followed, "I don't remember" became a mantra Clarice could recite in her sleep. "I don't know" ran a close second, with "I wouldn't care to speculate on that" subbing in as needed. If the non-answers made her sound like an ignorant idiot, it was no matter, because she was never getting back in the field anyway. That much had been made clear at the informal, internal conduct hearing she'd attended a week after Lecter's escape.

The investigation had revealed some … financial irregularities … between a certain recently deceased Justice official and a certain also recently deceased wealthy private citizen with an ax to grind against Hannibal Lecter. The scandal would have painted Justice – and, by extension, the FBI – in a very bad light.

For her silence, Clarice avoided criminal charges for waving a gun around at Union Station and the fiasco at the Verger estate. She'd be on suspension until a psych eval cleared her, and she'd be chained to a desk for the foreseeable future. There was nothing for it, though; either she accepted the terms or she marched herself into a jail cell.

"Accept the deal, Starling," Pearsall had urged her during a break in the proceedings. "I know you think you're taking one in the back again, but it's a fair trade. You'll salvage something of a career out of this if you just keep your head down from now on."

"Right. A fair trade," she had echoed. Then she bit down on the resentment and contempt boiling up in her and took the deal. The doctor's voice had rung in her ears. _How does that word taste to you, Clarice? Cheap and metallic, like sucking on a greasy coin?_

"It still does, Doctor," she muttered to the dashboard as she pulled the Mustang into an open parking space in front of her house. "How many weeks now, and I still can't let it go?"

She turned off the engine and stared with unfocused eyes at the neighbor's taupe Corolla parked in front of her. Its bland, unthreatening appearance and reliable, plodding performance seemed the perfect metaphor for what was left of her life these days.

Nearly two months of twice-weekly Bureau-mandated counseling sessions had finally gotten the in-house psychologist to sign off on her fitness for duty. She had been tempted to walk out the first day after the man had given her a welcome speech about trust and honesty while oozing false sympathy for her "bad experiences" with psychiatry in the past. If he thought she was going to share anything real with him, he was delusional. It was probably hope for a book deal that had faded and died in his eyes over the weeks.

But his signature had opened up a world of possibilities for her … in the exciting field of wiretaps. The last five weeks had been a miserable, droning tedium with nothing but the promise of more of the same to come. Clarice slammed her palms against the steering wheel. The jarring impact didn't even set off a twinge in her shoulder; rehab and strength training had done their work well.

She didn't know what she wanted, but she sure as hell didn't want _this_. There was nothing here for her anymore. She was trapped, held in stasis by a paralyzing realization. The justice she believed in couldn't be found within the halls of the FBI. It wasn't even apathetic indifference; it was self-interest and cowardice and corruption behind a veneer of fidelity, bravery, and integrity.

Lecter had known long before she had. Long before she'd been willing to admit it, she amended. He had even reminded her at the lake house. She didn't need the FBI to uphold her moral code; she needed nothing but herself. And maybe … maybe him.

She shied away from the thought, unwilling to examine it too closely, and thrust the door open impatiently. The sun had just finished its slide beyond the horizon; the remaining light cast a dusky glow across the autumn leaves on the trees lining the street. The lamps would click on soon and chase away the darkness a bit. A run would help her clear her head, keep her from sitting in an empty house on another Friday night.

She'd have to scrounge up a granola bar or something first if the rumbling in her stomach was anything to go by. Right, then; she had a plan for the evening. First, though, she needed to stand up, shut the car door, jog up the steps, grab the mail, fumble with the key, slip inside, and close and lock the door behind her. Done. Simple as that … right up until she dropped the mail on the floor, reached for a gun that hadn't been holstered on her hip in months, and pressed her back to the door in utter bewilderment.

Footsteps in the kitchen and then he was there in the doorway, staring at her across the length of the hall.

"Welcome home, Clarice. May I take your coat?"


	4. Chapter 4

The laughter wasn't planned. It escaped by accident, the same way her tension floated away when she realized Dr. Hannibal Lecter was standing no more than a dozen feet away, a deep blue apron draped over his fancy attire.

The whole scenario was absurd. She'd come home to what she thought was a burglar – lights on that had been off, noises from deeper in the house – and discovered a serial killer instead. Why was the former more disturbing than the latter? Why did the sight of the doctor calm her fear rather than stoking it?

"Had I known I needed only an apron to provoke your laugh, Clarice, I'd have contrived an earlier opportunity to wear one. You really must indulge your amusement more often, my dear."

Well that was almost flirtatious. Was the doctor flirting with her? Did she want him to? Clarice's laughter trailed off as it occurred to her that the answer might just be yes.

Her eyes drifted from his immaculately shined shoes past his perfectly creased black pants to the white dress shirt with its sleeves rolled to his elbows. He seemed … comfortable. At ease in her home, in her kitchen. She raised her eyes to gauge his expression.

There was a flicker of something there, something beyond his practiced neutrality and polite interest. She envied his ability to read people; his eyes, as always, were intent on her, but their meaning lay hidden.

"Forgive me, Clarice. I seem to have left you speechless. Perhaps I misjudged your desire?"

"My _what_?" Oh, that was smooth. Very sophisticated. Christ on a crutch.

"Your desire for us to become reacquainted over dinner."

There, that was a definite smirk. Brief, but unmistakable. Smug bastard, acting as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth even as he teased her. She needed to take control of the situation _now_.

"I'm surprised you'd admit to misjudging anything, Doctor." She stepped away from the door and shrugged out of her coat. Just a normal homecoming, nothing worth getting flustered over. Nice and easy. "You've always seemed quite confident in your pronouncements before." She turned to toss the coat over its regular hook, distractedly fiddling with the collar. "Not losing your touch, are you?"

His arm reached past hers to settle the coat more securely in its place. His mouth was only inches from her ear when he spoke. "Please, allow me."

Jesus Christ. How did he _do_ that? Her current work assignment had her tensing all day long as people walked past her cubicle. Even the ever-present headphones, with their monotonous droning of suspected criminal chatter in her ears, couldn't stop her body from recognizing when someone moved through her space. It made her back prickle from four feet away. But not him.

No, he could cross the length of the hallway and step up behind her until he was practically on top of her – now there's a thought, and a lovely image, no, don't blush or he'll know. _Ah, Clarice, be honest. Do you think I don't know already?_

Of course he did. And he wasn't saying anything because … because … _as a gentleman, I would prefer not to press a lady for her answer…._ Oh.

"You're being a gentleman."

It was the masculine hand pausing in its task that alerted her to her error.

Shit. It was definitely not proper etiquette to carry on a conversation with his voice in her head while the man himself stood so near. And it was downright stupid to answer out loud.

The doctor finished hanging the coat and stepped back. His movement gave her space to turn and face him, if she would. If she could. Of course she could; she was Clarice Starling, dammit. A possibly mentally unbalanced and extremely dissatisfied with her life Clarice Starling, she admitted, but fundamentally the same person who had walked into a dungeon in Baltimore all those years ago with her shoulders back and her head high. She turned and raised her eyes to his.

"Thank you, Clarice. I do like to make the attempt" – was that an unspoken _with you_ in his eyes? No, she was being ridiculous. – "and I must admit to some small measure of gratification that my effort has been noticed."

"It's just, uh, unexpected."

"That I should act as a gentleman ought?"

Well, she had blundered into that one.

"No, no, I meant I don't have – I mean guys don't – that is to say – oh, hell, Doctor, you know what I mean."

"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea, Clarice."

He was teasing again; she was certain of it now.

"There aren't any gentlemen in my life." The "other than you" went unspoken, and now she was the one sending messages with her eyes. "And learning the proper responses isn't real high on the list of lessons for trailer camp tornado bait white trash."

Why did she say that? That wasn't what she meant to say at all. What purpose did it serve? It had been months since he penned those lines, years since she had truly thought of herself in those terms. Was she a child now, to bring every scrape and bruise to light for his inspection? Did she think he would make it better with a kiss? No. It was time to stop that line of thought before her blood rushed to places it ought not.

"I see you're dispensing your rage in small doses these days, Clarice," he said, his tone so light and airy it might have been meringue on her tongue. "But you've had a long day, and you're weary from your toil, so we'll let it pass, hmm?"

He didn't wait for a response, merely gestured for her to precede him to the foot of the stairs.

"We've just about an hour before dinner. True, eight o'clock is uncommonly early, but I thought it might suit you better than holding the meal until a more seemly hour, given your habit of skipping lunch. It's quite unhealthy to leave such a large gap between mealtimes, Clarice."

"Fine," she snapped back with more speed than thought. "You can pack me a proper lunch Monday morning and send me off to work with a kiss and a wave."

And that, she noted in mid-mortification, had finally gotten a reaction out of him. It felt as though his chuckle warmed the air between them; his amused delight coaxed an embarrassed smile from her as well.

"You may be assured, Clarice, that if circumstances should be amenable on Monday, I will endeavor to make certain that you are well fed."

She opened her mouth to apologize, or at the very least explain that she hadn't been thinking, but he forestalled her with a wave of his hand.

"No, don't apologize, your frankness is rather charming and it was presumptuous of me to attempt to dictate your eating habits, as I have no such standing in your life that would permit the familiarity."

Damn right you don't, she thought. Yet. Wait, yet? What was that supposed to mean? She really needed to chase down the source of the stray thoughts that kept contradicting her. But not now; he was already speaking again.

"That said, I'm afraid I took the liberty of leaving something suitable for you upstairs in the event that you might wish to dress for dinner. You're under no obligation, of course. But you might desire a relaxing bath first, hmm?"

She raised an eyebrow, and he tilted his head.

"Doctor, did you draw me a bath?"

"And if I did?"

Well, if he could be gracious, so could she. What was allowing a serial killer to enter her home uninvited, choose her clothing, draw her baths and cook her meals really going to fuck up in her life that she hadn't already ruined beyond repair? In fact, when the serial killer in question was this particular one, it almost seemed downright relaxing.

"Then I'll thank you for your thoughtfulness, Doctor." She mounted the stairs, feeling better than she had all day. In months, even. Possibly ever. "An hour until dinner, you said?"

"Yes, eight o'clock." His answer followed her up the stairs, and when she reached the top and dared a brief glance over her shoulder, he was still standing at the foot, watching her with the oddest expression.

"I better get a move on, then. Wouldn't want to be late."

"Yes. Quite." He nodded to her and disappeared back down the hall into the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

The bathroom door stood ajar, the light already on to welcome her. Clarice pushed it open lightly with her fingertips; the scent of lavender rushed out in greeting. Tempted by the water that beckoned so enticingly, she sat on the edge of the tub and dipped her fingers below the surface.

It was warm, warm enough that she wouldn't have to top it off with hot water, though she noted that he had left enough room for her to do so without needing to drain any off. He had known, then, or accurately guessed, just when she would arrive home, timing it close enough to the minute that she could simply shed her work clothes and slip into the perfectly heated water.

Clarice pushed the door closed and undressed, grabbing a clip from the vanity and twisting her hair up before easing into the tub. There wouldn't be time to wash it before dinner.

Oh God. Dinner. She was less than an hour away from having dinner with Hannibal Lecter. A romantic dinner for two with a man who had sautéed another man's brains the last time she'd seen him. She couldn't even blame it on drugs this time. What the hell was she doing?

Her body shook despite the heat of the bathwater. She should never have gotten in in the first place. She should have fought him in the hallway, subdued him, and called Clint Pearsall to come pick him up personally.

No! Her mind recoiled from cold logic. Ten years ago, she could have done it. Hell, even three months ago she had tried to force herself to do it, putting duty above all else. Now, though, the thought of sending him back to a cage was disturbing enough that she hugged her knees to her chest and rested her head on top.

Whatever happened, turning him in was out of the question.

Well, then, she ought to have left. The instant she had seen him in the hall. Her keys had still been in her hand; it would have been no more than a moment's thought to be out the door and back in her car and beyond his reach.

His voice in her mind pounced on that ridiculous notion.

_Is there anywhere you could go where I could not find you, Clarice? Would you run from me like a rabbit? Is your courage not up to this task? Is what I want so distasteful to you?_

No. No, that wasn't it at all. The problem lay in wanting what he seemed to be offering. No matter that his mere presence made her happy. No matter that he seemed determined to pamper her. No matter that she dreamed of him, now, more nights than not. Some corner of her mind still cried out that it was wrong. What she wanted was wrong. It was strength, not cowardice, to back away.

Even if he loved her. Even if she … well. If she didn't think the words, could she deny the existence of the feeling? It wasn't as though she could simply steer the conversation in another direction; he'd no doubt come here for the answer she owed him. He would intuit the rest from her answer, whether she said the words or not. And he would force her to face what she thought she couldn't; he would dig and poke and prod until he had thoroughly scrubbed the wound and the blood ran clean.

Was it possible to want something so much and fear it in equal measure?

Clarice banged her fist against the tub wall in frustration, sending water sloshing over the side. Dammit. This was the most un-relaxing relaxing bath she'd ever had. She sank down into the water until it lapped at her collarbone, laid her head against the rolled-up towel he had thoughtfully provided as a pillow, and closed her eyes.

Just stop thinking so much, she told herself. The last time this little scenario played out, you _thought_ you ought to call the authorities, and look how that turned out.

"Bored, depressed, surrounded by thieves and traitors…." Clarice stretched, settling more comfortably with a shrug of her shoulders. "All right then. Let's try things his way. Just this once."


	6. Chapter 6

The lengthy soak had relaxed her in body and mind; the Clarice Starling who stepped from the tub was not the same woman burdened by the demands of a boring job and incompetent coworkers. She tried to recall the last time she had truly shed the stresses of her work at the end of the day – not only the inane tasks but also the looks and whispers of the agents around her – and decided it had been months.

Before the dinner party on the Chesapeake, even; back before the shooting at the fish market. Before Brigham had died to satisfy the supersized ego of an arrogant ass on the D.C. police force.

She shrugged into her bathrobe and tied it loosely. Brigham had understood her; as much as she had let him, anyway. The doctor, though … he understood even the parts she wouldn't let herself see. That was comforting, in its way. And terrifying.

Clarice blew out a breath and shook off the unhelpful thoughts. Leaving the bath behind didn't mean she had to pick up the doubts and fears she had laid to rest there. They could drain away with the water.

She crossed the hall to her bedroom, inhaling the scent of something from downstairs. She firmly shut the door on any questions about the source; no doubt it would be rude to ask, and if the dinner guests he'd entertained before his stint in prison hadn't been able to determine the contents of the dishes they were praising, it was unlikely she would either.

There was no question that he enjoyed pushing her boundaries, but would he test her on this? Tonight? He hadn't offered, that night at Paul Krendler's house, but dinner had been a rushed affair. Would he have expected her to partake? A symbolic gesture, consuming the defeated enemy?

Clarice sighed. That was the trouble with a restless, investigative mind.

"Everywhere you go, there you are," she muttered.

Then her eyes lit upon the dress draped across the foot of the bed. The doctor must like her in black; that or he had opted not to choose another color without hearing her preferences on the matter.

She reached out and stroked the fabric. Silk. Black on black brocade. There was a distinct lack of gaping neckline; she wondered if he had chosen the high Mandarin-style collar as a deliberate distancing mechanism. Still sleeveless, though, and slit up both sides to mid-thigh, and yes, she thought, as she lifted it to look, still backless until it hit the curve of her ass. He certainly liked to look at her skin.

_Don't your eyes seek out the things you want?_

She shivered, and blamed it on the chill of the room after the heat of the bath. The clock on her nightstand was steadily marching on toward eight o'clock – a quarter till already and her still in her bathrobe. Wouldn't _that_ be a surprising choice of dinner wear. She smiled at the thought.

But she had resolved to try things his way, and that meant accepting the dress.

With quick, economical motions, Clarice shucked the robe and donned the dress, fumbling for a moment with the neck clasp. The cut wasn't designed to accommodate undergarments; she hesitated only a moment before deciding to go without. The high collar negated the need for a necklace. She glanced at herself in the mirror atop her dresser, noticing as she did a shoebox and something smaller, in a blue velvet case, beside it.

She was there in three steps, opening the smaller item first. Two tiny emerald teardrops lay nestled inside, leaving her torn between a relieved sigh and the stubborn insistence that shoes were one thing and jewelry was quite another. Wrong or not, she wanted this, didn't she? The doctor had already claimed a corner of her mind for his own; that wouldn't change whether she wore the earrings or not. She was just ... accepting the external manifestations of an internal truth.

With a quiet growl, she removed the emeralds from their box and slipped them on. What she couldn't tell him with words, she could show him with actions.

It was easier to open the shoebox without a qualm once she had donned the earrings. Gucci, of course. Not an exact copy of the ones now filed away in the basement office at Quantico, but similarly strappy black heels. She dropped them to the floor and slid her feet in, lifting one at a time to adjust the straps.

Clarice twisted her head around to check the clock. Too late now for more than the barest swipe of cosmetics and a quick run of the brush through her hair. It wouldn't be enough to hide the pallor of her skin or the shadows beneath her eyes, but it wasn't as though she needed such artifice to attract his attention. If that was what she wanted to do.

She met her eyes in the mirror. Whatever it was that he saw in her, she wished she could see it, too. Courage and incorruptibility, Doctor? She stared harder, but the traits didn't suddenly materialize in her face. Her reflection was nothing more than an old, tired, bitterly unhappy woman.

Paul Krendler's words floated into her head.

_Well, maybe you're incapable of being happy._

She shuddered, pulled her shoulders back and blew out a breath.

"All right, Starling. Get the hell downstairs. If you really want to kill yourself, I'm sure he'll oblige."

And wasn't that a cheery thought?


	7. Chapter 7

It didn't surprise her to find him waiting for her at the foot of the stairs; he would have heard her moving about upstairs, noted the click of her heels in the hallway as she left the bedroom. The contrary voice in her head suggested he simply wanted to be certain she didn't bolt out the front door.

He had discarded the apron and unrolled his sleeves, covering his dress shirt with a three-button suit jacket. The green and gold accents in his tie matched her earrings. She found she missed the casual look – though he did cut a fine figure in the suit – and wondered what he might consider appropriate breakfast wear.

That thought nearly caused her to miss a step. He was there in an instant, his hand reaching out to steady her.

"I trust you haven't been indulging in morphine this evening, Clarice. I'd hate to have to remove your wineglass from the table before you've tasted the selection."

He kept hold of her hand, his thumb brushing across her knuckles as she descended the final two steps, before he raised it to his lips for a kiss. His eyes never left her face. She looked away.

"I save the morphine for holidays, Doctor, so you're safe for a few more weeks. Best put the wine away on Halloween, though."

And now she'd implied – again! – that this … oddity … might not be a one-time occurrence. That they might plan future events. Together.

He nodded as though she had spoken in all seriousness and responded with equally grave formality.

"I will be certain to keep that in mind, Clarice." He raised his left arm and drew her right arm through it. "May I escort you to table?"

"By all means, Doctor. Is it still mine, or did you redecorate the house while I was at work, too?" Her tone gently teased; she felt a sense of giddiness spiraling up her spine at the notion that she _could_ tease him.

"Not at all, my dear." He steered her into the dining room and guided her into a chair at the elegantly set table. The stemware, the flatware – hell, the whole dining service – was definitely not hers. "I thought I might save something for another afternoon."

She had been teasing; was he? If she took him at his word, it meant he too had given thought to a more … long-term arrangement. Out of his presence, the thought would have sent her into a mental panic. In his presence, it merely heightened her sense of exhilaration. His very presence was a reassurance that she wasn't simply imagining his … concern … for her. Without it, darker voices prevailed. She frowned, unsettled by the notion that he affected her so.

"If the table setting offends you, Clarice, perhaps a pizza box or takeout container might suit?"

She lifted her eyes from the plate, absently noting that he was now standing to her right, a bottle of wine in his hands.

"Digging through my trash, Doctor?"

He playfully wrinkled his nose at her.

"Nothing so gauche, I trust." He poured a half-measure of wine into the smaller, thinner wineglass to the right of her plate. It was white wine; given the nature of the man pouring it, it was no doubt expensive and well regarded as well, but awareness of color exhausted the stock of Clarice's wine knowledge. He moved smoothly around the table to pour his own and left the wine chilling in a small bucket. "I'll be just a moment with the first course."

In spite of the formality – perhaps because of it? – dinner was a relaxed affair. It seemed the doctor could effortlessly put her at ease, smoothly directing the conversation, giving her room to question and debate on a variety of light topics. Art, music, literature, cuisine, travel … somehow every avenue of discussion led to the next, all were intellectually stimulating, and none was emotionally threatening.

By the time they had finished the soup and salad courses and started on small dishes of sorbet – what she considered an icy dessert treat and he called a palate cleanser – Clarice's eye caught the clock on the wall and she realized with some startlement that nearly two hours had already passed.

Her mind reluctantly acknowledged that she could grow to enjoy such evenings … no, not just the evening. The sharing. The contentment. The company.

But it was an all or nothing prospect. If he truly did want more than just this from her, she would have to leave everything behind. She could never come back, either. And she would have to accept all of him … and give all of herself in return. He would never permit less.

The sorbet chilled her throat as she swallowed.

When she looked up, he was silent, watching her. It had been that way all evening; he was, she presumed, reading her every expression, analyzing her every motion, knowing her every thought nearly before she did. Well, perhaps not that last one, she granted, although it certainly seemed that way.

But his attention, intense though it was, never made her squirm like a suspect in interrogation. It felt … right, that he should know her, that he should _see_ her. His gaze was unlike the leers she had received from less circumspect men – which wasn't to say that there wasn't a certain … warmth … to it at times. But it was clear that her body wasn't the only thing he saw when he looked at her.

He listened as she oh-so-slowly articulated her thoughts on subjects outside her realm of expertise, subjects she truly had only begun to study as a way to get closer to him. To catch him, of course. He treated her as an equal in the conversation; he never spoke over her, never displayed impatience as she worked through her thoughts.

His attention was constant, unswerving, and utterly devoted to her.

Maybe that wasn't something to fear. Maybe it was something to embrace.

She couldn't see her expression when the realization struck her, but something in her face seemed to have satisfied him. He smiled faintly at her, the corners of his mouth just barely turning up, his eyes crinkling slightly, and then he picked up the thread of the conversation as if the pause had never been.

The pleasant, unhurried pace and light talk carried them through the main course (rare beef tenderloin paired with a red wine) and the dessert course (a sinful caramel cheesecake concoction – the source of the sweet scent she had detected from upstairs - paired with yet another wine).

"I'll have to invest in a wine rack if it's your intention to continue spoiling me like this, Doctor," she teased. "And I'll need to run ten miles a day to work off dessert."

He rose from his seat, coming around the table to grasp her chair.

"If you've finished, Clarice, perhaps you'd care to relax in the front room while I clear?"

"I could help with…." She waved a hand at the table.

"Nonsense, my dear. Unconventional though the setting may be, I am still the host, and it is not the guest's responsibility to clear the table." He smoothly pulled the chair back as she stood and gestured her toward the living room. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

She went without further argument, deciding that forcing her way into the kitchen would only make him suspect that she distrusted him – and, truthfully, despite the human organs he had served to society members and former clients, despite the blatant demonstration of cannibalism she had witnessed herself at Paul Krendler's home, she still trusted him, on some level, to be honest with her.

If he had wished to serve her something formerly human, he would have confronted her with the knowledge when he had set the plate before her. He would have challenged her, goaded her, so that he might enjoy her reaction. After years of study, she had barely scratched the surface of Hannibal Lecter, but she was as certain as she could be of one thing, at least: He would rather provoke her with honesty than calm her with lies.

Lies were for people like Paul Krendler. People like Frederick Chilton.

The doctor had left a table lamp on in the living room; its light cast a soft glow across the couch and chairs. Clarice tilted her head, considering, and flexed her toes. She opted to settle at one end of the couch and slipped off the shoes. Curling her legs under her was a careful maneuver given the style of the dress, but she managed eventually.

If only she could manage her growing nervous tension so easily. The state of relaxation she had achieved in his presence was fading now, as it occurred to her that the time must be drawing near for the purpose of his visit. The long answer. He hadn't broached the topic at all during dinner; he had, in fact, deftly turned aside any foray into serious territory.

"I wish I knew what you want, Doctor," she murmured. "I wish I could be certain of what I want."


	8. Chapter 8

He entered the living room carrying a tea service on a tray, which he gently lowered to the table before the couch.

"I hope you'll forgive the substitution of tea for coffee, Clarice. The caffeine at this hour would only exacerbate your poor sleeping habits."

She quirked an eyebrow at him as she accepted the cup and saucer he held out.

"First my eating habits, now my sleeping habits, Doctor? Is there anything about me you _do_ approve of?"

Something flashed deep in his eyes.

"Many things, Clarice." He skirted the edge of the table and took a seat at the opposite end of the couch, angling his body inward toward her own. There was nothing between them now, yet the width of the center cushion seemed a vast expanse in her mind. "That is, of course, what you might term the 'short' answer."

She could feel the uptick in her heart rate but couldn't put a name to the mix of fear and excitement causing it. The feeling only increased as he studied her form, his eyes lingering briefly on the shoes lying casually discarded before the couch.

"Are you quite comfortable, Clarice?"

There was no good answer to that, she feared. Yes would be a lie; no would be misleading. Neither would suit. She wriggled slightly to sit up more, pressing her lower back into the corner of the couch.

"I'm ready to talk, Doctor, if that's what you're asking. I'll even stipulate that you have clearly done your utmost to put me at ease since I arrived home this evening."

"Hardly my utmost, Clarice," he murmured, and she flushed. The words hung in the air for a moment until he continued in a normal conversational tone. "Very well, then. Shall I repeat the question, or are you prepared to venture a long answer now?"

Repeat the question that had circled round in her brain and directed her dreams for the last three months? Ridiculous. She couldn't stop hearing it if she tried.

Even the intonation was pitch-perfect in her memory. _Tell me, Clarice, would you ever say to me, 'Stop. If you loved me, you'd stop'?_

"I have some questions first," she hedged. "For clarification."

"Ask, Clarice. In this, at least, I am yours to command."

A stray thought asked just how many areas there were in which he was hers to command, but she refused to be distracted.

She leaned forward and laid the saucer and cup on the table untouched.

"Have you ever wanted to harm me, Doctor? To kill me?"

"Did you know, Clarice, that a black changshan, not entirely unlike what you're wearing now, is appropriate burial attire in China?"

Her anger rose, instinct crying out for her to attack the threat head-on. The rapid-fire rage response was nearly over her tongue and through her lips before she bit down on instinct and marshaled her thoughts.

Dr. Lecter didn't wave careless threats in her direction; there was something he wanted her to see. So, not a simple death, then. Something else. A symbolic death? A metaphoric death. Death wasn't merely the cessation of life; it was also...

"The end," she murmured. "Is something ending here tonight, Doctor? This is ... the end of what has gone before. And the start..."

"Of something new, perhaps," he confirmed, his voice as hushed as hers had been. It might have been approval at her own mastering of her temper that brightened his eyes.

She nodded.

"But you won't be getting away with leaving questions unanswered, Doctor."

"Are you certain you don't already know the answer to your question, Clarice?" Even in the low light, his gaze pierced her. "Ah, I see that you do."

"I need to hear you say it."

"Fair enough. No, I have never wanted to cause you harm, Clarice. Can you say the same?"

Was that subtle mockery in his voice? No, she decided, as he spoke again; it was full-on amusement tempered by courtesy and the doctor's own reserved nature.

"Snow globes, butter knives, candlesticks … you seemed quite determined to do me injury that night."

"All of which you easily turned aside, Doctor."

"You're avoiding the issue, Clarice."

True, she thought, and grimaced.

"I behaved badly. I wanted something very much, but I didn't know what it was or how to ask for it. I wouldn't … allow myself to do so."

"And now? Has that changed?"

"I know what I want, Doctor. And I don't want to lose it. But I haven't worked out how to ask for it yet."

"What is it you believe will happen if you ask for what you want, Clarice?"

"I don't know. I might get it. I might not get it."

"And are both of those options equally terrifying?"

The discussion had picked up a dizzying speed, as though she were back sprinting to the finish on the obstacle course at Quantico. Her lungs heaved.

"I don't … maybe. Sometimes. What I have is … familiar. The outcome of asking is … unknowable."

"You would rather stick with what you know, Clarice? Eight hours a day of mindless drudgery in a windowless box, serving no purpose, being of no help to yourself or anyone else, accomplishing nothing? Coming home to an empty house, desperate to escape, and running, always running, your feet pounding on the concrete and still unable to drown out the voice of your dying soul? Is that the … _familiar_ … life to which you would cling?"

She felt hounded, driven as he pressed the attack in the sneering tone that set her teeth on edge and fired her temper. He knew her routines. She should have picked up on it earlier from his comment on her eating habits. Jesus, her sleeping habits, too. Had he been prowling around inside her house again while she slept? For how long? That kind of knowledge didn't come from a day or two of casual observation to be certain the FBI wasn't watching her house; that was long-term surveillance.

"How long have you been watching me, Doctor?" It was a struggle to maintain an even tone; it angered her more that she couldn't quite manage it.

"Irrelevant," he snapped. "Answer the question, Clarice."

She itched to get up, to stalk and pace, channeling her rage into fuel for her body, but she knew he would see it for what it was – another way to hide, to run away from emotion. Physical exhaustion was a weapon she often wielded against herself. She slipped her hand over the arm of the couch and dug her fingers into the fabric instead.

"No. I'm not a puppet you can pick up and play with when it suits you, Doctor."

"Yet you're content to remain the puppet of your beloved Eff Bee Eye."

Was she vibrating with the tension? Her muscles were primed for explosive force. It was a dangerous situation when his response to her movement might be more predator than man. She turned her head, slowly, and stared across the room, silently counting. She reached fifty before she was willing to attempt a reply.

"We're digressing, Doctor."

"You're deflecting, _Special Agent Starling_."

Oh, it _hurt_ to hear her title from his lips. After the hours of talking and teasing – she could have that, couldn't she? If she only worked up the courage to ask for it. If he wasn't merely playing games. – the contempt in his voice shocked her into stillness.

_Never forget what he is._

She blinked, and he sighed softly.

"Finish your questions, Clarice. Or tell me to go, if that is your wish."

Go? No, that wasn't her wish at all. Was that … sadness in his voice? Resignation, maybe. She considered the questions she had wanted to ask - _Would you truly stop simply because I asked? Are you in love with me, Doctor?_ - and felt a twinge of guilt. She had promised him the long answer, and now she was holding it hostage until he satisfied her curiosity. The oddity was that he was letting her. That alone should have been answer enough.

"No … no more questions, Doctor. I owe you an answer. Just … listen, OK?"

"Of course, Clarice."

"Right. OK." She untucked her feet and stood up, pacing to the wall and back before belatedly checking his expression. "Sorry. I, uh, it's just…."

He smoothly filled in the gap.

"Movement aids your thought process. It's fine, Clarice. You needn't apologize to me for being wholly yourself."

She stared at him.

"Yes, that, exactly. That's what…. No, I should start from the beginning."

She took a breath and began, unconsciously falling into the rhythms and inflections she had used for many years when laying out the specifics of an operation to agents under her command.

"There are several things to consider in your question, Doctor.

"First, am I to take it seriously at all? A hypothetical question raised for your own amusement is hardly worth responding to in a serious fashion. But since we cannot proceed from that angle, I must presume that you do, in fact, seek a serious answer.

"Second, if I were to ask you to stop, would you do so? Would I want you to? Third, do I believe that you love me? Fourth, am I prepared to accept, rather than reject, that love, assuming it exists at all?"

She ticked each question off on her fingers as she paced.

"If we posit that such a situation exists in which the question would come up at all, then the real question becomes this: Would I, knowing that you love me, shamelessly attempt to manipulate you into being something other than what you are? Would I ask you to make yourself vulnerable, to risk your freedom and your life, and possibly mine as well, to demonstrate some sort of moral superiority?

"I used to think that the badge made us different. But you were right about the FBI, Doctor. It doesn't serve order. It's full of thousands of individuals who serve their own agendas, whatever they are. Some of them genuinely believe they're doing the right thing, but there are plenty who lie and cheat and steal. People I'd be less comfortable entertaining in my home than the killer who's so far inside my guard that I can't even see him anymore.

"I've studied your victims, Doctor. You follow a more rigorous moral code than hotshot agents who can't wait to make a name for themselves taking down drug dealers. You're a man of reason and caution – and no, I never believed that insanity bullshit – and you're meticulous. You can be vicious when cornered, and you've no qualms about taking advantage of others' stupidity and greed when it benefits you, but you don't make me fear for the lambs, Doctor. You would never snatch a child off the street and slit her throat on a lark."

She finally stopped pacing to face him.

"No, Doctor, I would use neither myself as a lure nor your emotions as a weapon to let me put you on a leash. I suspect you already keep yourself on a far tighter leash than I ever could."

His face remained impassive for a long minute before his eyes slid shut and he hummed in appreciation.

"Thank you, my dear, for your honesty and your courage."

She wasn't certain what else she had expected. That he would go, now that he had his answer? That he would declare his intentions? That he would laugh at her presumption and end her life? She watched him, uncertain, frozen in her living room until his eyes opened and he spoke again.

"If you'll permit me one question?"

She nodded.

"What if I were to say those words to you, Clarice?"

"If you were to … you want me to stop, Doctor?" She frowned, shaking her head. "I'm not sure I follow."

"It's killing you slowly, Clarice, your Eff Bee Eye. If it's your death you seek, tell me now and I will make it quick and painless."

"You've already said you don't want me dead, Doctor. You promised not to harm me."

"No, Clarice. I said I did not _want_ to harm you. For myself, I have no desire to do so. It would, in fact, pain me - yes, pain. Do you think I don't feel it, Clarice? I assure you I do, and have done, as I've watched you struggle these last few months."

She moved forward, groping for the arm of the couch with one hand until she could sink back into her seat.

"You never left, did you." It wasn't a question; she knew. He had been watching over her for months. _Stalking_ her – and, oh, how her mind shied from using that word. Was there something wrong with her, that what concerned her was his safety and not her own? "You stayed close, despite the danger, despite the investigation."

"The agents currently on the case are no danger to me, Clarice. They are predictable, following preselected pathways laid out for them in manuals. They are not investigators; they have no gift for intuition."

That had never been her problem, not with him, and it was a flash of such insight that prompted her next words.

"I'm the dangerous element in your life. The unpredictable one."

"Yes."

"But you want me there anyway."

"Yes."

She laughed bitterly, then.

"Your courage puts mine to shame, Doctor. At least you can admit to wanting what you fear."

"It would please me if you could as well, my dear, but you've come further than I expected in such a short time. It's quite freeing to say the words, even if only to oneself."

"No ... no. I won't take the easy way out, Doctor. I need ... I need..."

"What do you need, Clarice?" His face was open to her, his voice soft and low. He was coaxing her out of hiding, and she was letting him.

"I need to face what I am. What I want. I need to be honest with us both. It was never you at all, was it? It's me. I'm the one who needs to stop. I'm killing us both because I won't let go. I need to choose."

"Yes."

Her eyes flicked to his.

"You don't know which way I'll jump, do you."

"I'm not certain even you know the answer to that conundrum, Clarice."


	9. Chapter 9

They sat in silence for long minutes before the doctor politely excused himself to return the now-cold tea to the kitchen and bring her a fresh cup. Clarice hardly noticed, so lost in thought was she.

The china rattled slightly as he carried the refreshed tray back in and deposited it on the table. She saw the black line of his trousers pass in front of her, but her eyes refused to track properly. It was decision time, and her mind knew it. Everything else was secondary. All available resources were dedicated to a single question: Could she accept the risks, leave her life behind, and grab hold of an unknown future with Hannibal Lecter?

When he took hold of her hand, she nearly leapt from the couch. He merely wrapped her fingers around a new cup of tea, cradled her hand in his, and raised the cup to her lips.

"Drink, Clarice."

She obediently took a sip. Warmth flowed through her body. She shuddered as it broke the panic-borne paralysis the question had induced in her.

"Thank you, Doctor."

He released her hands and took the seat to her left.

No empty cushion between us this time, eh, Doctor, she thought.

"It is not my desire to unsettle you so, Clarice."

What? Did he … no, no, he meant her panic. The questions. She shook her head.

"So you mean you didn't come here to shake up my whole world and force me to face my fears? Why, Doctor, I'm disappointed in you."

"You're deflecting again, Clarice."

"I know. I can't … I can't seem to stop, Doctor." She refused to face him, looking for answers in her teacup instead. Her words were barely even audible to her own ears. "Will you help me?"

"The decision must be yours, Clarice," he chided. "What can I tell you, show you, that you do not already know? Shall I shower you with opera tickets and exotic vacations? Shall I cut down another of the fools who have wronged you?

"There is no one who knows me as you do, Clarice. You know the monster and the man. Only you know if there is enough left for you to love. What more is there to say?"

Her hand shook as she fiddled with the teacup until he lightly plucked it from her grasp and set it aside.

She needed more time. But she had wasted so much time already. What if this was her last chance to take what she wanted? Even if it wasn't, wouldn't she face the same dilemma next time, and the time after that, until not making a decision had become her decision? Wasn't that merely another kind of leash? A different way to cage him. To take away his freedom. And wasn't that the opposite of what she wanted?

It was only when she was with him that she found contentment. There was a rightness in this, no matter how strongly her mind protested when they were apart. All she had to do was say the words.

"I want … I want…."

"What, Clarice? Tell me, and don't lie." His voice held the promise of tenderness, not threat.

The words stuck in her throat before she choked down the terror, the sense of _wrongness_, holding them back.

"You. I want you." Blessed relief. Exhilaration. She felt euphoric.

His voice snapped out, harsh and cutting, "Behind bars?"

"No, dammit!" A new certainty filled her. What she wanted was _right_. It was right for him and it was right for her. That was all that mattered. She met his challenge with strength, awash in the sureness of her conviction.

"With me. I want you with me. You're the most infuriating man … but my life isn't empty and meaningless when you're with me. I feel … I feel like the most important thing in the world. I feel … cherished."

He smiled, then, and his hand reached out to brush her hair back from her face. The spark took her back to Memphis. Her breath caught.

"You are, Clarice. More than you know."

She couldn't look away from his lips. They had featured prominently in her recent dreams – and not too infrequently in her dreams before that, if she were to be honest. His voice alone … she warned her thoughts not to stray too far down that path, but her mind had other ideas. What reason did she have to hide now?

She no longer needed to shy away from what she wanted. It was here, in front of her, and she could take it. What difference did it make if he could see her desire in her eyes? Her skin heated. Her lips parted. Her eyes darted to his for just a moment – in a bid for permission or a warning of trespass, she wasn't sure.

"Ah, Clarice, Clarice … you'll make _me_ blush with such ideas."

The low rumble of his voice so near was her undoing. She speedily closed the gap between them and pressed her lips to his. She nipped and soothed in turn and gloried in the moment when her questing tongue tip persuaded his lips to part for her. It wasn't enough, though, not nearly enough.

Before she could overthink it, she turned and rose onto one knee, thanking the doctor's foresight in choosing a dress with such helpful slits cut up both sides, and swung her other leg across to straddle his lap. When his hands grasped her ribs, she worried she might have moved too fast, that he would push her away – but he only stroked her sides down to her hips and pulled her closer, settling her weight on him.

She hummed approval and tightened her legs around his, bringing her hands to his chest and leaning in for another searing kiss. Christ, why had she waited years to do this? Could she make up for the lost time now by never leaving his arms again? That definitely seemed doable. Her kisses grew shorter and more frantic; her hands crept up to cradle his jaw.

And still it wasn't enough.

She pulled insistently at him, urging him to lower her back to the cushions. He was either ignoring her signals or oblivious, and she had never known him to be oblivious to anything.

Her lips brushed against his ear as he lavished kisses on her neck. "Work with me here, Doctor."

He paused. His breath puffed against her skin as he spoke. "I think you'll find I am, Clarice."

She tugged on his lapel. "I want to feel your weight on me."

"You're certain this is what you want, Clarice? It's not simply an … experiment?"

She drew back to study his face. His lips were swollen from her attention, but otherwise he appeared impassive. She stared until finally something flashed in his eyes. Her newfound confidence allowed her to deliver her answer with the seriousness it deserved rather than shrouding the truth in flippancy.

"If it's an experiment, Doctor, it's one I plan to repeat every day for the rest of my life."

The sparks in his eyes turned molten as she watched. His hands at her waist, he lifted her to her feet and stood up swiftly.

"Upstairs. A couch may be suitable for future _experiments_, Clarice, but on this night nothing less than a bed will suffice."

She gaped at him.

"You're serious?"

"As I said. You may say 'no' if you wish, Clarice, as is always your right" – he raised an eyebrow and she nodded her comprehension – "but this will happen upstairs or not at all."

She twisted around him, stepping backward toward the staircase.

"Those stairs there?"

He matched her steps with slow precision.

"Mm-hmm."

She crossed the threshold from the living room to the hallway, bare feet landing lightly on the wood. Arm outstretched, she grasped the banister.

"Right up these stairs," she confirmed.

And still he kept to his maddeningly slow pace.

"Mm-hmm."

She smirked at him.

"Race ya." She sprinted for the bedroom.


	10. Chapter 10

He had told her once that she needed to get more fun out of life. Well, she was absolutely doing so now. Her heart pounded so hard in her ears it nearly drowned out the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. That she could hear him at all was no doubt deliberate on his part.

He was only seconds behind her when she entered the bedroom, flipping the light on as she went.

Impatient to undress, she pulled her hair over her left shoulder and lowered her head. She reached for the fastener at her neck, but he was faster. His hands clasped her shoulders, waiting, and she let her arms drop in acquiescence.

His thumbs stroked her skin as they moved slowly to her neck. A moment, and the dress was sliding away, leaving her bare to the waist. His thumbs trailed up to the base of her skull, lightly massaging.

She trembled with anticipation, unable to see him behind her, unwilling to move. Flooded with relief, she moaned when his open mouth descended on her neck. His teeth dragged across her skin as he seemed to inhale her soul, consuming her in a way that promised only pleasure.

So focused was she on the touch of his mouth that the path of his wandering hands had gone unnoticed until the stroke of his fingers against her thighs made her jump. His hands were sliding upward now, beneath the dress, lifting it as they moved. She arched back against him in a wordless plea. His weight shifted forward in response, his groin firmly pressed to the curve of her ass for one dizzying moment before his hands reached her waist.

His mouth and hips briefly stilled, pulling away from her as he stripped the dress from her body and tossed it over the chair in the corner.

It occurred to Clarice that she was naked now and he had yet to remove a single item of clothing, but there was no shame in the knowledge, no discomfort. He loved her. With him, she was beautiful. She was the ideal, the pattern of "woman" woven into the universe at creation.

His hand lazily stroked her back, knuckles running up and down her spine.

"Yes, Clarice. That and more," his voice was hushed with something … something like awe, she thought. No … reverence. "For me, there is no other."

She wondered if her thoughts were so plain to him that he could read them in her back now. No sooner had she done so than his hand lay alongside her face, gently turning her gaze.

"The mirror, Clarice."

Her skin flushed with desire and her nipples tightened. He had been watching her, had seen how his words and actions affected her. She could see her movements reflected in the glass now, her chest rising and falling more rapidly as the pace of her breathing increased.

She had to moisten her lips before she could speak.

"I hope you aren't going to make me wait, Doctor." Just his stare, eyes hooded, reflecting back at her, secondhand, was enough to ratchet up the tension in her limbs. Her toes wanted to curl into the rug.

His smile told her he knew; the hand rhythmically clenching around her hip told her he wasn't unaffected either.

"No, we've waited long enough, haven't we, Clarice?" His body pressed in closer behind her, the fine fabric of his suit feeling deliciously sinful against her bare flesh. "I do hope, however, that you'll find it within you to call me by name, my dear. We're beyond titles now, are we not?"

The hand not squeezing her hip swept across her stomach and down. She parted her legs without a thought, and he accepted her silent invitation. His fingers skimmed across her lips, opening her to him. She heard him inhale, deeply; the hand on her hip momentarily convulsed. It was all the warning she had before his finger was inside her, his hand firmly cupped against her flesh, the heel resting atop her clitoris. She surged toward the sweet pressure.

"Oh, god."

"You do make me feel like one, Clarice, but that is not my name."

Her breath became a pant as he slipped a second finger inside her and began to thrust. She thought she might pass out from the pleasure. His hand kept her hips from moving as they longed to; his fingers set the rhythm of her desire; his thumb now pressed steadily against her clitoris; his erection stood snug against her back in sharp relief despite his clothes between them. There was no need for her to act or imagine; he would give her what she wanted, what she needed, without any intervention on her part at all. Her head dropped to his shoulder, her face turning into his neck.

"Hannibal," she whispered to his skin as his fingers moved faster. "Hannibal, _please_."

Her teeth sank into his flesh when she came apart under his touch.

She quivered with aftershocks as he carefully lifted her onto the bed. Her fingers traced the marks on his neck. "Did I hurt you?"

He pulled her fingers away and kissed her hand as he winked at her.

"No matter, Clarice. Your passion is a welcome gift in any form." He stood at the end of the bed, undressing with what seemed little hurry, though she knew even his unmatched restraint must be sorely tested. She wondered what she might see when he dropped the leash. "Of course, I reserve the right to bite back."

His suit coat, tie, and shirt joined her dress on the chair.

She flashed her teeth at him. "I reserve the right to like it."

"Mmm." His belt hissed through the loops of his slacks as he removed it. "I was correct in my earlier assessment, Clarice. It is quite something to know you in private life."

He bent down, presumably removing his shoes and socks. She propped herself up on her elbows to avoid losing sight of him. Now that she finally had him, she wasn't sure she'd ever be ready to let him go.

He stripped off his slacks and underwear as he stood, so that when he rose and stepped forward he was nude before her. His body was fit, muscular without being over-muscled, and her eyes drank in the sight. They returned, however, without fail, to the sight that held particular interest. Her legs shifted restlessly as she stared; his erection twitched against his stomach in response. He was otherwise still, and her gaze eventually drifted upward to his in question.

"Finished your inspection, Clarice?" His voice was warm, teasing, unperturbed by her lengthy perusal of his form.

Her head shifted slowly from side to side, but her eyes never left his.

"Only the initial visual inspection. This next part is more … hands-on. I'll really need to put you through your paces to get a true picture of your value. Though what I've seen so far has been … impressive."

"Has it, now?" He leaned forward, his hands dropping to the bedspread on either side of her knees, and his muscles rippled as he raised first one leg and then the other until he crouched above her. His hands slid forward; he ducked his head, nudged her thighs farther apart, and pressed his tongue between her lips.

She gasped at the intrusion, her hips curving toward him without conscious thought. When he lifted his head, heat and laughter mingled in his eyes.

"I must say, Clarice, I admire your taste."

Then he lunged forward. Her supporting elbows collapsed as he bore her down to the bed with his weight; her heart hammered in her chest. He growled into her ear and she could feel the vibration against her ribs. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, inhaling the scent of him and enjoying the shift in his muscles as he naturally accommodated her movement beneath him. There was no danger here, only play. She knew giddy joy and feminine pride, that she could touch him so, that he would trust her – trust them both – enough to be playful with her.

He nipped her ear. She giggled, delighted, and couldn't recall when she'd last made such a sound. He repeated the motion; she repeated the sound. He raised his head high enough to look at her face, feigned astonishment in his own.

"That couldn't possibly be Clarice Starling _giggling_ in the midst of my seduction, could it? My skills must be inadequate to the task. Clearly, I will have to redouble my efforts."

She couldn't hold back her grin; there was too much happiness inside her for it not to bubble over, given even the slightest opportunity.

"By all means, continue." The grin edged into a smirk that became a moan as he thrust his hips forward, putting delicious pressure on sensitive nerves, and then it was his turn to smirk.

"Certainly, my dear." He nuzzled his cheek against hers. "Whatever you say, my dear." His hand trailed down her arm and took her wrist, pulling her hand away from his flank and sliding it upward past her head until her arm lay fully extended. "Your every wish is my most joyous command." He did the same with her other arm, his left hand now pinning her wrists to the mattress. Her legs bent and rose on instinct, clutching at his hips. His eyes burned into hers. "Tell me, Clarice, is there something you want?"

Every breath scraped her nipples against his chest now, and she whimpered at the friction. His hips rocked gently against hers, slow and steady, his erection hard and hot and so very, very close to where she wanted it to be. She couldn't look away from his face hovering above her own.

"You, Hannibal. This. Everything. All of it. I want it all." The words tumbled out between breaths until she wasn't even certain of what she had said. It seemed an eternity before his mouth descended to hers, claiming a fierce kiss, at the same time his hips shifted and thrust, driving him into her.

Then there was nothing but the storm, the need to be closer, to meet his every motion with her own, her back and hips arching and flexing beneath him in counterpoint to bring them more tightly together, her legs locking around his back, fingers and toes going numb as tension wound through her body, lungs straining to fuel such excess. Her awareness faded to nothing more than the slide of his flesh against hers. She was so close now, so close….

He broke their kiss, his mouth moving to her ear as his hips thrust even faster.

"Take what you want, Clarice. It's yours." His voice was low and rough with passion. "Take it, now."

She surged upward, his words and the angle of his next thrust combining to ignite the lightning waiting for release. Her cry was fierce and triumphant as she shook with pleasure. His thrusts grew rapid and erratic until finally he drove forward and was still, her name a hoarse whisper from his lips.


	11. Chapter 11

The faint light of dawn was edging in around the curtain when Clarice drifted into wakefulness. She lay sprawled on her stomach across half the bed, her face turned toward the window. She blinked and sleepily rolled away from the light.

The motion brought her to Hannibal's side, his arm ready and waiting to pull her in close. She tucked her head against his shoulder; her fingers absently stroked his abdomen as it rippled with his breathing.

"You're still up?"

"Hardly that, Clarice. A man does have his limits, after all."

Her nails scratched him, lightly, scolding; she mentally scoffed at the notion of limits. Her "hands-on" inspection had gone an additional three rounds before she was down for the count, pleading exhaustion. His smug smirk had followed her into her dreams.

"Awake, then."

He hummed in affirmation and then added, more tellingly, "I wanted to watch you sleep. The night has gone better than I might have hoped, Clarice. Is it any wonder I was loathe to let it end?"

"These … hopes … of yours," she began, her fingers tracing stray shapes on his skin. "You've had them for a while?"

"You intrigued me from our first meeting, Clarice, but you know that already."

Her fingers paused in their movement as she waited to hear what else he might say. His hand stroked reassuringly over her back.

"I didn't imagine that you might be … receptive … to the notion until the night you came to me smelling of rain and blood. Couldn't wait for morning, could you? You were quite driven. You sat on the floor, right up against the Plexiglas as though we were old friends having a chat. Why is that, do you suppose? No, you needn't answer now; it's merely something to think on. You courteously accepted the towel I offered and made use of it. You knew the rules regarding distance and the passing of materials through the tray, Clarice, yet you ignored both. You, a servant of order, eagerly disregarded the rules because it pleased you to do so. With me. I may have been … encouraged … by such behavior, hmm?"

He was right; that _was_ something she'd need to think on. Had she been his even then?

"All these years … you've been waiting for me?"

"You were young when we met, Clarice. Experience has taught you lessons in the intervening years that I could not have duplicated. You would have wondered, then, if you had made the correct choice. The reassurances of others never run as deep as one's own experience." He exhaled softly and watched her intently, seeming to measure something in her face before continuing. "And I was not fit company myself, then. I had been living primarily through memories for eight years, Clarice. There was … a period of readjustment. Time was necessary for us both."

Silence settled around them as she considered his words, tested their weight in her mind, and nudged her thoughts into a new alignment. A question emerged, a disquieting concern that wouldn't be shushed.

"But the risk … if things had gone differently for me at the FBI, or if I hadn't been strong enough to admit – to _accept_ – this thing between us … what if I had never…."

She raised her head from his shoulder, and the smile he gave her was so bittersweet she ached to see it on his face. He nodded slightly, in recognition of her understanding, perhaps.

"It was a calculated risk, Clarice. The strength was always there within you; it was merely a question of which truth you wanted more."

She tugged on his hand, and he gave it willingly. She laid it alongside her left breast and pressed until his palm flattened out against her skin.

"My truth is here." She let go of his hand; he remained motionless. Her own hand settled on his chest, just left of his breastbone. She pressed down, comforted by the steady thumping beneath her palm. "And here."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> If you've made it this far, thanks for sticking with me through my first posted fic. I hope it was an enjoyable read. I'd love to know what you liked or didn't like. I try to respond to every review, so if I've missed you, I do apologize. If you haven't reviewed, no hard feelings; I don't review every story I read either, and I'd hardly hold you to a higher standard than I hold myself. - BG


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